


All Over Again

by ebbj9891



Series: In Quest Of Something [81]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Light Angst, M/M, Nostalgia, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 20:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3909484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebbj9891/pseuds/ebbj9891
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin is suddenly confronted with an unexpected change. Fortunately, Brian has a solution in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Over Again

“They’re redeveloping my building,” Justin says, fumbling his way around the words as he arrives home and walks into the kitchen.

Brian looks up from the work that he’s spread out over the island and frowns. “What?”

“It’s being sold. They’re going to gut it and make it all residential. There won’t be any more studio spaces.”

He hears how hollow his voice sounds and hates it, but he really can’t help it. Justin is stunned. He received notification an hour ago, in the form of a very brief email from the property manager. After calling them and harassing them, they went into greater detail – all of which left Justin in shock. He won’t be able to renew his lease. When that’s up, it’s over. He’ll have to leave. Then, come the new year, they’ll be tearing the building apart and turning it into something unrecognisable.

An hour isn’t nearly enough to process this information. The shock of it is like a dead weight in the pit of Justin’s stomach. He can’t believe it. He can’t imagine his studio being anything else. He has precisely two months, two weeks, and six days left in it, and then it won’t be his any longer.

Justin gravitates towards the bottle of wine on the counter and pours himself a very full glass. After taking a decent gulp of it, he murmurs, “That’s it.”

Brian sets aside his work and peers at Justin worriedly. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.”

That’s a lie and they both know it. Justin takes another drink, which he hopes might help rustle up a more honest response.  All he can come up with is a blank statement, something that suddenly occurs to him: “I’ve been in that studio for twenty years.”

“Shit, has it been that long?”

“Apparently.” The dead weight in his stomach sinks deeper and deeper. Justin sags into one of the chairs and puts his head down on the island. He realises that he’s sulking, but he feels that he’s earnt it. _Twenty years._ They seemed to fly by. Now all of that is set to vanish right before his eyes.

As he gives in to his dismal mood, Brian sighs and says, “Well… this is as good a time as any.”

Without raising his head, Justin mumbles, “For what?”

“I’ve been thinking about your next birthday.” Brian pauses, then leaves the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Give me a minute.”

As he waits for his husband to return, Justin settles in with his glass of wine. After every mouthful, he grabs the bottle and tops himself up. Truth be told, he’d much prefer something stronger… but that would involve walking down the hall and into their bedroom, past a long line of paintings and sketches that were all completed in that studio. His lovely, beloved studio. What’s it going to be this time next year? A fucking walk-in for some socialite? A breakfast nook for some investment banker, his wife, and their 2.5 kids?

As Justin sneers at the hypothetical future owners of what he firmly believes to be _his,_ Brian returns with something tucked under his arm. He comes and stands behind Justin, kisses his neck, and wraps an arm around him. Very tenderly, Brian says, “Look, I know how much you love that studio. But let’s be honest, Sunshine – you’ve outgrown it.”

“Since when?”

“Uh, my best estimate? At least ten years ago.” Brian nuzzles the nape of Justin’s neck and asserts, “You’re a huge fucking success. An icon.”

“I am not an _icon,”_ Justin protests, chuckling.

“Are too.”

 _“Please.”_ Justin smiles as Brian embraces him tighter. He knows that Brian won’t relent on this front, so he concedes, “In certain select circles, I may have a modicum of prestige.”

“Nonetheless. An icon - even a minor one with his modicum of prestige - can’t be cooped up in a shoebox all day long. You need a space that’s conducive to your workload – not to mention your ego, which is quite astronomical when you’re in higher spirits.”

Laughing, Justin elbows Brian. “Shut up.”

“Not likely,” Brian teases. He places a sizeable portfolio down in front of Justin and opens it. “You deserve a space that reflects your status and your ambition. Also, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again - I don’t see why you’re still renting when we could easily buy a place. On that note, I was thinking of one of these.”

Inside the portfolio are property listings for spaces that make Justin’s mouth water. As he flicks through them, his bad mood starts to recede. Each and every one of them is incredibly appealing –he doesn’t know how he’ll ever choose. There are places in Soho, some of them only a few blocks away from his soon-to-be-former studio. Justin bypasses them immediately; since change is being thrust upon him, he figures that he might as well embrace it fully and go for a change of scenery. He looks at the other listings – plenty in Tribeca, Williamsburg, Chelsea, and a few on the Upper West Side – and feels touched. Brian has clearly hand-selected them with great care. These are places that he has known and loved for years. It’s not just the neighbourhoods that appeal to him; the properties themselves are perfect. They look divine, they’re suited to his needs, and there are a litany of other selling points that Brian has rigorously noted in red pen: _close to the A train; right next to that bookshop you like; great deli right underneath._

“How long have you been planning this?” Justin queries, as he flicks back to the beginning and starts looking through them again.

“A couple of months. I thought I’d put them together for you and let you choose. It is your birthday, after all, and it would be yours.” Brian kisses his cheek and adds softly, “It’ll be in your name.”

“Our names,” Justin interjects firmly. “Ours.”

Brian smiles. “If you insist.”

“I do,” Justin says resolutely. Everything else is theirs, after all – why not this place, too? He’s always thought of his studio as theirs, in a way… and not just because Brian was always so generous in the beginning by helping with the rent. It was always something more than that, though he resists thinking about it for fear that his melancholy will return in droves. As he turns the page and gazes at a property in Chelsea, he asks, “You really want to-”

But Brian doesn’t even let him finish.

“Yes,” he enthuses emphatically. “Fuck yes. Let’s do this. Look, I know you’ll miss your old studio… but it’s clearly time for a change. Whichever one you want, it’s yours.”

“Ours,” Justin reminds him stubbornly.

“Ours,” Brian amends, laughing a little. “Whichever one – you take your pick. I know that wherever you end up, you’ll keep doing great things.”

“Brian,” Justin says, feeling awash with affection. He turns around and hugs Brian with all his might. “Thank you.”

*

The two months, two weeks, and six days pass in a blur. Justin spends most of it working as though everything were normal; he’d like to enjoy his remaining days in the studio as much as possible. Then, as his time starts to run out, he’s forced to divert his attention away from his work. The studio needs to be packed up and emptied. After twenty years, it’s a nightmare of a job. Justin spends three weeks on taking inventory alone.

When the time comes to pack, Brian shows up with supplies, announcing that he’s taking a long weekend to help. As Justin eyes the cartons and bubble wrap and tape, he feels a lump forming in his throat.

Come Tuesday, it will all be over. He doesn’t know how to deal with that.

So, in a brazen act of avoidance, Justin grabs Brian and kisses him. It’s the kind of kiss that he knows Brian can’t resist; the kind that makes everything else cease to exist. They spend most of Friday fucking, reclaiming every inch of the studio. It doesn’t provide the distraction that Justin had hoped it would – it can’t, not when every moment is steeped in nostalgia. They’ve done this so many times before, over and over again through the twenty years that he’s been working here, and the thought of all those times before and how this is the last of them makes Justin’s heart clench.

Come Saturday, they get to work properly. They clear out the storeroom together and spread everything out over the studio floor. Once it’s organised, they begin the tedious process of packing. Justin attempts to make it less tedious by blasting music and ordering in from their favourite local delivery places, but he still feels a thread of tension that makes everything harder than it ought to be.

He doesn’t want to leave. He might have a new place lined up, but this place still feels like his. He doesn’t know how to let it go.

But there isn’t any other option, so they continue forth. By Sunday, the workbench is covered in boxes. They continue accruing until the entire studio is a labyrinth of cardboard for them to squeeze through. It’s like the space is closing in on him, but whether it’s trying to force him out or trying to hold onto him, Justin isn’t sure.

When the removalists arrive on Monday, he goes into the storeroom and locks the door. As soon as he hears Brian leave with them and the first lot of boxes, Justin sags against the door and cries. He only lets it continue for a few moments – he doesn’t want to give into it, not completely, or he’ll be a total wreck.

The storeroom is empty. It’s such a strange sight – it hasn’t looked like this since he first moved to New York. Even then, it wasn’t like this. When he first rented the studio there were bits and pieces scattered around the storeroom from the previous tenant. Justin remembers those artefacts as though it were yesterday. There were a bunch of old film reels, a pot of glue, and a collection of cheap paintbrushes with their bristles stuck together. He kept them for a few months, wondering if the previous tenant might return for the reels, but despite numerous efforts to get in touch nobody ever showed up. They were binned by Spring.

Since Brian and the removalists are likely on their way back up, Justin gathers himself, unlocks the door, and opens it. He doesn’t leave, though – he stays in the small space, checking and rechecking to ensure that the shelves are well and truly empty. He smiles to himself as he comes across the wobbly shelf by the door. That was Brian’s doing a few years ago – he slammed Justin up against it mid-fuck, ignored it breaking in favour of finishing, and then neither of them could figure out how to fix it properly, nor could they be bothered calling in a contractor. Justin settled for the shelf being a little wobbly – it was always a nice reminder of that afternoon and the delectable feeling that Brian couldn’t get enough of him.

Once he’s triple-checked the storeroom, Justin makes his way over to the workbench and leans against it. He forces a smile at the removalists as they come and go, and assures Brian that he’s fine, even though it’s probably completely fucking obvious he’s not. As Brian disappears with another armful of boxes, Justin strokes the weathered wood of the workbench. He’s spent countless hours here; he wonders, if they could be counted, what might they add up to? Years? A decade? More?

He sat at this workbench when he interviewed people for his collection focusing on queer identities. They sat across from him and bared their souls. Justin still remembers all of them – Max, who laughed through his pain and proclaimed that humour was his only defence mechanism; Jana, who chain-smoked whilst hissing bitterly about her parents; Rose, who tried so hard not to cry, although she eventually ended up in tears; and so many others. He hopes he’ll always remember him – they helped to make him, after all, and for that Justin is endlessly grateful.

It wasn’t just the interviews that happened here. So many other things did, too. He taught Gus how to paint at this workbench. He even convinced Gus to help J.R. learn how to paint, which was a major accomplishment at the time. Gus spent so much of his childhood here working on something wonderful. More recently, this has been one of their spots where they spend time together: Justin paints, Gus writes, sometimes amidst blissful silence, other times chattering and singing along to their favourite music.

And then there’s Brian. This was one of their spots, too. This was where they’d meet most Thursdays for quieter nights together: they’d share take-out, talk about their days, and Brian would watch him work – always, _always,_ with that look of admiration that makes Justin’s heart sing. They’ve also made out on top of this workbench, fucked on it, beside it, up against it… hell, they’ve even had a paint war here. Justin bursts out laughing as he recalls smearing Brian with paint until he was coated with the stuff in every colour imaginable.

As he’s laughing, Brian returns with the removalists. While the removalists leave with more boxes, Brian approaches Justin with a smile and asks, “What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking about how hot you looked with lilac hair,” Justin teases, grinning wickedly at Brian.

Brian scowls and wrenches Justin into his arms. “I’m glad you found that amusing. I was washing that shit out for a fucking month.”

“Sorry,” Justin snickers.

“You are not,” Brian retorts sternly.

“No, I’m not.” Justin cups Brian’s face in his hands and kisses him. “You know, in a few years, you might like to make a return to lilac. I hear it’s on trend with elderly folk.”

“You little shit,” Brian growls, flattening Justin against the bench – maybe for the last time. There’s a sad sense of nostalgia to it, but Justin ignores that and focuses on kissing Brian, tasting him, enjoying their final moments in this place that was theirs.

It really was theirs. His, Brian’s, and Gus’ too. _Twenty years,_ Justin thinks, as Brian’s mouth crushes deliciously against his. He could spend months listing all the great things that happened here. This place made him feel safe when he first arrived in New York; it was somewhere for him to belong, somewhere where he could find himself all over again. He carved out a career for himself within these walls. He’s lost countless hours of sleep here whilst working obsessively and in that time he’s grown to think of it as something more than just a studio. It’s been a home to him. Though his work is sometimes wearying, this studio always re-energised him. There’s something about it – some fantastic, appealing, invigorating quality. Whatever it was, he came to know this place and make it his. He fell in love with it and all that it had to offer.

Now it’s time to say goodbye. He isn’t ready, but there isn’t any other option. The boxes are gone. The removalists are en route to the storage facility. Brian is waiting to leave.

Justin makes his way out of the studio slowly, taking in every last inch as he goes. His heart aches as he realises that this is really the last time he’ll ever be here. He has precious few seconds left, which feels completely bizarre after two decades.

Before closing the door and locking it for the last time, Justin grabs Brian and hugs him. He holds Brian close and stares over his shoulder at the studio, totally empty, about to be abandoned. The light outside is dimming, spilling shadows throughout the space. Justin wraps his arms around Brian a little tighter and Brian does the same, just like they’ve done so many times before in this place.

If there was ever a way he wanted to remember his studio, this is it.

*

A month later, his new studio is ready. It becomes his on a Tuesday, which feels so right – he discovered his last studio on a Tuesday. As Justin makes his way to the new studio, the keys clutched tightly in his hand, he tries to figure out exactly how much time has passed between then and now.

He veers off Eighth Ave. and onto West 15th, where his new building awaits. He punches in the new security code, climbs the stairs, and finds himself outside his new studio. As he unlocks the door, he realises: it’s been twenty years, three months, and two weeks.

Justin freezes with the key half-turned in the lock, feeling outside of himself for a moment. He was twenty-two back then, looking down the barrel of a long-distance relationship, and all alone in a city that he was rapidly falling in love with. Now he’s forty-two (Jesus fucking Christ, _forty-two)_ , Brian is here with him, they’ve been married for fourteen years, and their grown-up son is here as well. 

For a moment, Justin is caught in a spell of dissonance. He feels like that twenty-two year old again: a little lost, very conflicted, but thrilled at the idea of what might happen next. He grabs onto that excitement and clings to it as he unlocks the door and throws it open.

The new studio stares back at him in all its glory. It’s at least thrice the size of the old one, with huge bay windows that are letting in glorious streams of light. The hardwood floors look ever so inviting – Justin is sure he’ll wreck them in no time, but that’s all part of the fun.

He walks around the space, acquainting himself with it. An echo sounds with every step he takes. It’s aged, worn, a little rough around the edges… but to Justin, it’s brand new and full of promise. He eyes the empty space and thinks of all the ways he could fill it, all the time that he’ll spend here, all the great things that could happen here.

He’s eager to get to know it. He’s excited to make it his.

He’s ready to fall in love all over again.

**The End**


End file.
